Page 79 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
For another? The man apparently treats shopping like tactical warfare.
“We need to get you actual clothes for Vermont,” he says as we walk through downtown Burlington carrying coffee cups.
“I have clothes.”
“You have Florida clothes.”
I gasp dramatically. “Rude.”
“It’s September.”
“It was eighty-seven degrees three weeks ago where I lived.”
He gives me a flat look. “And now you live somewhere that gets snow.”
“Temporarily.”
Something flickers across his face at the word, but it’s gone too fast for me to fully catch it.
“Still,” he mutters. “You need clothes.”
The first store we stop at smells faintly like cedar and expensive candles.
“Daltyn.” I tug on his sleeve. “We can go somewhere else. I really don’t need expensive clothing.”
He ignores me, wrapping my hand in his and guiding me around the store.
Within ten minutes, Daltyn has already found me several sweaters, seven different pairs of jeans, and four pajama sets that are comfy yet adorable. Somehow, he looks perfectly comfortable carrying an alarming amount of clothing over one arm.
Meanwhile, I’m still staring at the price tags in horror. “Daltyn.”
“Hm?”
“This sweater costs more than my electric bill used to.”
He glances at the tag. “Seems reasonable.”
“Reasonable for a billionaire, maybe.”
“I’m not a billionaire.”
“Close enough.”
His mouth twitches. That tiny, almost-smile does dangerous things to my nervous system every single time.
I sigh dramatically and head toward the fitting rooms, carrying an armful of clothes.
“You need help?” he asks.
I turn slowly. “With trying on pants?”
“You almost fell taking off your boot yesterday.”
“That was one time.”
“So?”
Traitorous warmth spreads through my chest. Because he remembers everything. And because he looks genuinely concerned that I might hurt myself.
